The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B

20

Four thirty o'clock Monday following Trinity Sunday the summery month of June. After embattled weeks of waiting. A somber Professor Elegant came down the steps of the Examination Hall. Crossing the clean knobs of cobbles to the two figures leaning against the granite stone of the Campanile. The air all perfumed with the new mown green smell of grass. Laughter of students peddling by. Professor Elegant looked at the two sad faces and said he was sorry, the appeal had failed.

All these days of hope. Sitting through the golden afternoons the window open of one's room. To hear the glad carefree voices passing below. The white pop of a tennis ball. Students calling out college gaieties through this week of June. Taken away from a leafy square that I've come to know. The beds of flowers. Daisies twinkling in the sun. And a forgiving Fitzdare. Who said please, please, you must still come. And stay with me in the countryside as we planned.

Rumours all over college. Snickering behind some hands. Little huddles as one goes by. And faces whisper turning to watch as one was past. Breda came riding on a bicycle. I smiled. I saw her from my window looking as she passed each doorway reading up and down the names. Until she came to my entrance and I heard her little knock on the door. She found a situation in Cabra. And wanted to see me now to know I was cured.

Horace brought us tea. And she had a new black coat. And stared around the rooms. And looked in books. And I gave her an armful of movie magazines. And as she sat there was another knock on the door. And in came Miss Fitzdare. Who stood and smiled to say she only stopped a minute. And Breda said she was going now. They each left quickly after the other.

And Breda said ah God how money can make you beautiful, and if you're beautiful already money can make you supreme.

I bought Breda a jewel. Flown from London and sent her by messenger in a blue velvet box. A flawless emerald big as a cashew nut, cut like a heart, on a platinum chain. She wrote a neatly printed two penny postcard in reply.

Thursday

June

Cabra

Dear Balthazar,

No one has ever given me anything like jewels before. Or even anything else I could ever call a present. This is to let you know that I would rather have you than this gem, just in case you didn't know. But as we are of opposite ends of society it wouldn't do to prolong the agony I feel. You didn't have to give me anything. This situation here is worse than my last. And I would as soon be out of here and suffering instead in pagan England.

Always yours if you ever wanted me.

Breda

Beefy disported back and forth. Unmindful he said of worldly shames. I asked of the great deed box stuffed with money. He smiled and said you'd never believe. And he introduced me to a blue black complexioned man in Front Square. Who read silently his Greek and Latin to bring them back to Africa. And had never been known to speak one word in all his time at college.

"A very shy chap is this black fellow. Sat next me for months. Would only grunt or squeak. But we became awfully good friends. And then one day he handed me a bit of paper. On it written a word, sometimes two, sometimes three. One day it would be Sure Footed. Another time The Bug, Fire and Ashes, Mr. Motto, or Dandelion. I always smiled thankfully just thinking poor chap had his brain fried too long by the African sun. And next day I'd meet him grinning and shaking his head up and down. And I'd do the same. Until one day I saw an evening headline, Blue Danube Wins Thirty To One. There it was on my little piece of paper Blue Danube neatly printed out that morning by my friend Zutu. From then on I've put two fivers on every horse he's tipped."

Through these last days. The university cricket match. College races in College Park. Trinity Week Dance. Fitzdare asked me to go. Instead I got drunk and incapable. Hammering on Breda's door in Cabra where they said she'd left the day before. All across college, smiles on all the faces and sorrow on my own. Horace came that last morning as I was packing.

"Sir it's been a privilege and pleasure to be your servant. I just thought I'd let you know. You can't help getting kind of used to someone over the months. And I'm sorry now to see you go."

Two great steamer trunks packed and locked. Standing in the middle of my empty sitting room all addressed to London. A lorry came and four men carried the heavy weights down the dark stone stairs on their backs. And with a suitcase I went to the hotel up on Stephen's Green. Paying my last college bill on the way. Eighteen pounds eight shillings and eleven pence. For servant, milk, gas and electricity consumed, chamber rent, and commons fund. The amount increased by seven and six, a tardy fine due.

To watch as I have before out across these green trees, the distant slated rooftops and reddish chimney pots, to the purple mountains in the morning sun. All the mirroring windows and doorways around the square. And a letter from my trustees.

The Temple,

London, E.G. 4

Dear Mr. B,

Your letter of the twenty third instant to hand in which we are informed of your decision to follow a career in the breeding and racing of horses and further that a suitable property is urgently required for the pursuit of same. We do not at this time wish to set obstacles in your way but it is incumbent upon us to advise you to continue your studies at university. Also, having regard for the long experience necessary to successfully pursue the above occupation we would be remiss in not pointing out the grave and expensive risks in such undertaking. Furthermore, a castle and five thousand acres with deer park, having regard for outlay for stock as well as the high upkeep and considerable wage bill involved to maintain such premises in a good state of repair, could be crippling and therefore we are duty bound to take a position in the matter of advising in the strongest manner against. And we would look forward to a further and different word from you in respect to your plans.

Regarding the incident of your trespass, a settlement has been reached for the payment of two hundred pounds, fifteen shillings and four pence (£200.15. 4) damages and costs and the matter is now at an end.

Yours faithfully,

Bother, Writson, Horn,

Pleader & Hoot

Beefy waved the letter gently in the air. He stood in my long narrow sitting room as ducks from the pond of Stephen's Green flew past the window as they did at ten fifteen every morning.

"My dear boy, but of course you must rear and race horses. You must. What a jolly fine outdoor idea. Newmarket. Good hunting country. Everyone randy for miles around. Eminently sensible. Profoundly suitable. Fitzdare. I mean a great horsewoman. Two of you. Set up together. She's a good mare, would foal a few little ones. Plus, my dear boy, her stallion Dingle. Every time that chappie covers a mare you can spend a fortnight in Nice. Of course my own trustees are being very shirty. You know how one gives one's acquaintances a friendly goose up the arse as they mount or dismount horse or motor. My trustees are vastly and continuously goosing me. Not nice. I am steady in morals, elegant in manners. No peeing in bedroom basins. And still they doubt me.'

And the door opened with a knock. A tray and ice bucket of champagne. A dish of tongue and smoked salmon. Put on a low round mahogany table. A silver haired waiter in his long tails. Tearing off the grey gold foil, gently lifting the wire cap away. And with a neat quiet twist, a discreet pop and a little white froth he poured two glasses, bowed and smiled and was gone. Beefy sitting back in checked cap, plus twos, orange tie and yellow shirt.

"One is now launched in life. Pick up a little London town house cheap. Throw in a few silk rugs. Little leather work around the place. With a marble hallway and staircase nothing can ever fault one's dignity. Asprey's nearby where one is able to rush to cure one's pale spirit. Me old granny has taken the news of my being sent down rather amiss. Usual old threats. Cut off the allowance, disinheritance, and the shoving of one's person into residential furnished chambers a shadowy end of Mayfair. Not nice. So much unhappiness and misunderstanding these days. I gave that rough who was pursuing Miss Fitzdare some what for. There was a whistle for a set scrum and the chap elbowed me in the ribs. Finally had to say, please don't do that. Had to settle his hash with a bolo to the haggis. And bundle him into the mud. One knows his type well. Fortune hunter. You mustn't worry. But of course you know you must propose to the precious Fitzdare immediately. Matchmaker Beefy knows the time to strike."

At eleven the phone rang. The taxi was arrived. To go out northwards from Dublin. On the Swords Road through Santry. All my shoes shined by Horace to last for years. A final cold crap done in college bog. A moment remembered by an elm tree, one day passing the playing park. Miss Fitzdare giving of her all on the ladies hockey team. Showing her splendid knees. I was just in time to see her slam the white ball when grossly fouled by a fat creature. And Fitzdare ran on to score a goal, to walk back midfield most unperturbed her hair hanging in a pony tail.

Beefy motored with me to the airdrome, his legs crossed and cap lowered over his eyes. Out past the green fields. Grey gateways to haunted houses back in the trees. He stood out on the balcony of the airport building. I walked with my glad- stone bag over the lonely concrete to the waiting grey plane. Beefy said good luck dear boy and take your tea like a man, and see you back for my monster party. I climbed up the little ladder. Beefy blew a kiss goodbye, his hair waving in the breeze. Two engines humming under the wing, its nose pointed up at the sky as we rolled along. I sat mid ships near a tiny window looking out past the strut. And we bumped down the runway and slowly up into the air.

Rising in the western sky. Dublin to the south a grey pincers biting a blue sea. As cows jumped scattering across the grass below. Hedges grow small. And beyond, the fields stretch to the heavens. Turning north now over Drogheda, the coast and Irish Sea. During the awful weeks of waiting. Fitzdare came and said but you jolly well must cheer up. I've come to take you out to Greystones. The train is in twenty minutes from Westland Row. Out by the sea you'll feel so much better. Do come please come with me. It was a Saturday. Together we went down and out my steps. Across by the lawns, out the back gate and along Westland Row. Yes that's where I learned to play harp, piano and harpsicord. She wore a light grey sweater, moss green suit, a purple line making big squares. Her string of pearls and a black silk scarf tied under her chin. A smile and laughing teeth. I think you'll like this uncle too. He's nice. The great train came pounding and throbbing into the lonely red brick station. Two round trip tickets travelling first class. Past the rusty stone of Blackrock between walls bursting with shrubs and flowers. The sorrow of these grey gravel platform stops. Carrying all my sadness further out to Sandycove. Glenageary with pink flowers in the grass. Out of a dark tunnel we came. Our hands touching on the seat. She turned and said please, before you go away to London do come to Fermanagh. And down below the tracks, grey waves of the sea on a wintry looking beach. Past green hills to Greystones. In a summer house under yew trees we sat with her uncle sipping gins and tonics. A whispering wind in that pine scented garden. A gentle rain sometimes falling. There she was. She sits. Her laughter flowing sweet. Eyes always adance. And later walking back to the station we saw nuns standing silent and dark at open windows reading in their black prayer books. She said as we passed the big house and high hedge they're all alone with their hearts and it must be calm and not unhappy. Fitzdare said when she was a little girl on holidays here she borrowed books from that public library. Tied her horse to the railing and he drank water from the trough. There across the road against the wall. My desecrated life. Up here in an airplane through these purest clouds. I fly to see her. From my beery shenanigans. Rocking in the air. Alone on this plane. Bumping over the purple grasses far below. Ponds and rivers. Blue mountains, silver streams. Gone now my rooms in Trinity. The grey expanse of college. And those terribly sad moments walking up my granite steps, haunted on the stone slabs. The afternoon the college authorities handed down their verdict. I stood at the bars of the half landing looking out back at the rugby pitch of College Park. Heard a train puffing over the tracks towards Westland Row. I held myself together. Wrapped in my arms. Climbed quickly up and entered my rooms in case anyone would come and see me there. I never wanted to be sent away. From the bootscrapers at the doorway entrance. From all the knobbly trees in the square. Where the sharp iron spears hold up the chains and one could hang from the cross bars up on the lamp posts. Horace stood by and asked if there was anything he could do. I thanked him and he left, away on his bicycle under his battered hat. I stood at my scullery window. The shattering loneliness makes the spirit well up and grieve. All this now is gone. To leave the green peace and beauty. The lovely walled silence safely away from the hurrying world. Look and see it all for the last time. The morning rescued out of Donnybrook. I lay in the warm waters. In the bath house which squats before the Dining Hall windows in Botany Bay. Under the skylight, within cubicles on the smooth tiled floor. Big hooks for clothes and I dreamt of Fitzdare lying there. All of her long white alabaster body. The tip of my pole poking above the waters. To be in you Fitzdare. Give you joy without pain or heartbreak. One knows of other college sorrows. Of only two weeks ago. A man jumped from his window and splashed his brains on the cobbles of Front Square. A scholar passing in the midnight found him there. When other night times Beefy stole pears out of the Provost's garden. And daytimes the sun did shine in on my life. To let grow up such strange dreams before the verdict was handed down. Of glowing golden cities to the east, waiting for the step of my foot when my moment would come to travel at the close of the academic year. After the last postings of white sheets of paper on the boards. Final meetings of unions and societies. I was glad through the days of Advent and Epiphany. And watched as a scroll was handed to Fitzdare. On a grey cold Wednesday. The awarding of the Diploma for Women in Religious Knowledge. And I could not sleep that night and awoke early in the chill for my one and only religious moment. I washed staring out across the empty square. With combed wet hair and sniffling nose I hurried along the gleaming street. Cold out and cold within. Briskly on frigid feet in damp socks to chapel. Eight thirty o'clock. Hoping for some little warmth from one's gown. Black light fabric sweeping aside with the breeze of walking. All the tiny warmths escape. The chapel smelling of its timber. The engines tremble this airplane. Make these moments always keep. Take them with me wherever I go. As I did that morning to hear the voices singing. The cheeks of Beefy's face puffed in song. After a night of sin. He goes all better all beautiful. About his ways. Under the stained glass eyes of God up there at the end of the chapel. And behind him College Street, a yeast company, and wandering citizens. God has such big shoulders and long flowing white hair. Please look down on me now. Dry away the helpless sips I took of friendly impurity. Make me good and worthy of Fitzdare. I seem so unclean. Only one charge put down for baths on my college account. The curtain fallen. On university years. Ireland down below. Where waits Fitzdare. Able to recite all Chordate characteristics. A ventral heart. Blood contained in vessels. And saucy minded, all I can recall is the tail extended beyond the anus. For which I would listen for her lips to say. Anus. She said it bravely and abrupt. Her cheeks slightly coloured. In all my zoological knowledge anus always stood four letters alight on the wasteland blank of my mind. O Balthazar if s so easy to remember. A dorsal hollow nerve cord. In Amphipoda, the carapace is absent, the eyes are sessile and the uropods styliform. And upon that academic instant I struck out. We sat across our afternoon coffee in the stained glass no smoking room up Grafton Street. I said come to Paris. Her face went beet red. I panicked holding my hand over my heart, fingers perusing the embroidery of my linen hanky. I stumbled on in a broken hoarse voice unable to stop. We could go spooking around my father's country house all shuttered up for years. Inside the big brooding walls and iron gate. Or go to the races at Chantilly. Separate suites at the Raphael. She looked down at her folded fingers. And said yes, she'd come anywhere with me. I sat stunned in this long silence. Our bodies together between the sheets. Tears came hopelessly carefree out my eyes. I had to turn my face away. And found all the afternoon dowagers staring. I got up and hurried out. My God what's wrong with me. So afeared and frightened by her courage. To ask her come away with me. And she says yes. I told Beefy. He said my God marry her before you get corrupted in evil ways. Take her not to Paris but in marriage, dear boy. She will look splendid in mountain climbing gear. Two of you. Out there on the crags, fussing over outcroppings. Sighing in ravines. Dear boy the two of you have so much to learn. The foldings of the mountains. Follow her up the icy peaks and not me into hell. Each banging with your little hammer. And down there I see some rolling mountains. The pilot shouts out his little open door. Descending now. Fasten your seat belt please. Belfast is on the right. Loughs lie in a green flat gleam. Ragged coast. He says there is the River Lagan. Can't believe Fitzdare will be there. Just waiting. As Belfast sits in a valley, faint smoke hovering above. Light green the world once was. We go lower and lower now. To turn fluttering in over the rolling fields. Wind whistling by windows. Closer and closer. Farms and barns. Tilled brown acres and yellow ones. The hedgerows pass. The wet runway. Hares scattering across the grass. The bumping wheels. And one sits back again. Low cream coloured buildings. Like dead sun and sand. A summer sea so many years ago sucked in from beneath the soles of my feet. Waves washed around my ankles, my young skin white and blue. And once when nannie lay in foam, the sea washed up between her legs. I said is that hair there, like sea weed and she rolled over on her face. And the water came up around my knees. Now past all those years, from the summers sprang blond autumn trees. As this aircraft stops. And the pilot smiles. A little bumpy coming in but we're safely here.

Balthazar in rust brown tweed suit. His walking stick and yellow gloves. Crossing towards the barracks buildings. Flat roofed on this flat land. Bereft and lonely. A soft mist. And no one here. Only the hares out on the flying field swivelling their ears as the plane taxied past. And clouds of starlings and flocks of plover. The endless green flat countryside beyond.

A little slope of lawn. In the center a ring of boulders. The flag of Britain flying there. O God she didn't come. Found out all about my saucy escapade. Call the pilot back. I want to leave at once. Take my bag to customs first. Through this door. Along this corridor. Customs man in blue, gold rings round his sleeves. This your only luggage sir. Are you out of that plane. Yes. On holiday. Yes. His smile and mark of chalk. And I go out these doors. And may have to come back through again.

Balthazar B passing out to this waiting room. His cane and his bag. Through these sprawling huts. Look here look there. And no Fitzdare. Maybe wait atop these steps. The rough may have lured her away. Let her wipe her feet in his hair. Now Til go back in again. Eat this great bowl of emptiness. And suddenly turn. So much despair on my face. And see standing there. Watching me. Fitzdare. Like a whole blazing sun in this land so solemn, silent and bare.

A chauffeur in leather leggins, grey uniform and grey peaked cap. Took Balthazar's bag. And held open a door into this black leather topped limousine. An ancient long black car. Fitzdare in a pair of rubber boots. And a zipped up green jacket with folds of maps sticking from the pockets. Her teeth so white and lips so lively red.

"Gosh you've come. I just had to watch you. Looking so lost and strange. I saw you walking from the plane. I apologise for this great old crock of car. But it does get one there. I don't know what to say. Just to see you sitting here. O push those over. My weekly errands in Belfast. Will you have a grape."

"Thank you."

"So funny, you stepping out of that one little plane. Hello."

"Hello."

"I just want to say hello again. I hope you're not too hungry. We've fifty miles to drive. Terence will take us the quickest way. I've been trying to figure one on all my maps but give up. I've got a pocket full of walnuts. Have one."

Narrow empty winding roads. Horses and tractors cutting and raking meadows. White walled farms. Fields cocked with hay. Neat thatched roofs. The muck and mud at fence gates. Churns of milk waiting at the end of lanes. Wheels whirring on the black wet gleaming surface. Fitzdare said through there you can see Lough Neagh. Down across the sodden fields and scrubby trees a grey water haunted and lonely out to the horizon.

"I call it the eely eerie pond. Full of eels. There is an island where there are dangerous rabbits. They fought off the rats. And now the rabbits are so fierce they'll attack and bite a man. The flies are awful in summer. Keeps the shores very lonely. Lot of funny names to our towns. Tanderagee and Ballygawley. O dear I'm sure I sound enthralling as a guide."

Through little towns and villages. Castle ruins silhouetted on the hills. She gives each its name. I ride with an erection. One's hopefully imposing perpendicular. All my own. To cross into County Fermanagh just beyond Fivemiletown. Fitzdare with a signal ability to crack her walnuts. She feeds the meat to me. From the cool palm of her hand. Will confront her father. I've designs on your daughter dad. In the musty upholstery smell of this car. As now Miss Fitzdare sits up. And suddenly shy.

"It's only along here now beyond this bend.. Up there on that hill there's a sort of table land where one can get a marvellous gallop in the wind."

A wall, stones sleeping all stacked up. Beech trees, their smooth grey silver rising high in the sky. A white gate hanging broken from an upper hinge. Bumping over a pot holed drive. An umbrella of rhododendrons. Over a little bridge and stream. The road turning through meadows and another wood, haunted and strangled in vines. Chauffeur slowing to an open gate. The wheels making a ringing noise bumping over the rungs of a cattle trap. Parkland and grasses. Now between two tall stone pillars mossy and green with ivy leaves into a cobble stone courtyard. Fitzdare so still and silent.

The grey heavens opening to a stretch of blue. The sun shot out. Rolling and spilling over lawns aflood with green. And a rambling great slate roofed house. Could see a porch across the front held up under high granite pillars. Gleaming tall windows. Ivy covered grey blocks of stone. Chimneys and chimney pots. And blue lake water sprawling in the distance, against hills turning gold and purple.

"We're here. Everyone's going to mind I brought you in the back door. We've got to get you boots. There's Dingle. See his head sticking out of that stall. Show you him later. I've put you in a room where you can see the lough."

Miss Fitzdare pushing open a brown door. Slamming closed behind us. Cold paving stones. A chill air. Doors, halls and kitchens. Past a shadowy scullery. A grey haired woman turning to look up from her table stacked with greens as we passed by. Who smiled to Fitzdare's smile. A boy with his hair plastered down and parted in the middle. In a tight grey coat, his blue wrists and wrinkled nearly white collar. Carrying Balthazar's bag. He said yes miss and no miss and I don't 256 know about that, miss. A flush of colour on Fitzdare's cheeks. Walking fast and certain on her way.

Through this rambling house. A high long corridor. A print of Trinity Dublin. And out now into a great front hall. Gilded mirrors. A wide staircase. And high up a round skylight. Yellow flowers on the mantels. Portraits watching down. Light blue carpet and marble balustrade up by these wide gentle white stone stairs. Just as Beefy said. Nothing can ever fault one's dignity. Can't believe I'm here. Just behind her. Seems so strange and far away. As she plods in her boots. Following this little boy. Who now lags behind. Haven't seen to that yet, miss. I'll be walking him about four miss. And he gives a little bow of the head and leaves us in this spacious room. A fire blazing. Great sills of the windows. And seats piled high with golden pillows.

"I hope you're going to be comfortable. I've been airing it out for three days. You're west and south. In the morning it's quite magic when the sun is shining on the hills and lake. This was my mother's room. Hope you won't mind the canopied bed. If there's anything you need. Just push the button there. Someone but not a footman will come. You laugh but it really works and someone comes. I know what you're thinking, well you look just as strange standing there to me as I must look to you. Neither one of us has hardly said a word.'"

"It's terribly beautiful. I'm rather speechless."

"Tea will be in twenty minutes. And your bath and dressing room's through there. Just come down. Whenever you're ready. Dear me. Can I just say. Fm so awfully glad you're here. I thought of it so much. And now you are. I'm at such a loss. Look at me. In my gum boots."

Miss Fitzdare a curl of her black hair fallen over her brow. Cool white face I could gather up in my hands and press my lips on her eyes. Grab her shoulders. Pull her down with me on the crimson counterpane. Amid these faint white white walls with drawings of little inky flowers. As she smiles and steps away out the door. To leave me now. And stare out the window. A table under a folded fading awning. The grass so smooth and rolling down to the water's edge. Across a metallic glimmering grey to low pastures and higher hills beyond. Dreamt of her sitting somewhere out there so many times. That a breeze would come and flutter the page of her book as she read. Through the summer afternoons. And she would close it then, to look up at the sky. When life stops in the silence. With only racing buzzing bees and dancing white butterflies. A bird sings. Reach up to put a hand to some dream you kept awake. Now you take it like a red ripe apple and polish quietly up and down one's sleeve. Sent away from college. The sadness is I've left her there. With all the arthropoda. And phylums of polyzoa. And o God the subclass of crossopterygii. As this sky goes so quickly grey. Getting on for rain. A portrait there. Her mother. An elegant face of black hair and blue eyes. Will watch me pull on my knickerbockers. I so specially brought with my heather coloured stockings. To cut at least a sporting figure. Look everywhere here for signs of her. There she sits in this tiny photograph on a donkey and over here on a horse. Row of little leather books. The History of Armagh. My bath and dressing room. Oatmeal soap in this flower covered dish. Soft clear water runs and fills the bowl. Brush my hair. Take lint off the coat. Stocking seams straight. Put on my walking shoes. Cold crystal delicious water to drink. Goes down my throat and washes the soul. Seagulls over the lough. Great slow flapping wings of a heron. The rarest Fitzdare grew up out of this land. On the blackberries and cabbage. And behind those trees, her horses graze. Must rub a little across the toes. Uncle Edouard said a gentleman's shoes should never carry too much shine.

Balthazar B went down the hall. Past the double doors of all these rooms. By portraits of ancestors and stallions held by grooms. Under the great high skylight and step by step down so silently. She brought me in the back door. Means she likes me. Touch these porcelain and alabaster urns. Six candles in the gleaming glass octagonal chandelier. She sat all those months, blue stockinged legs twisted on the stool as she wrote out labels for her collection of marine and fresh water fauna. And now to see Fitzdare here. In all this palace splendour. Where does she sleep. And bathe and take off her clothes. Her back would be white. Lay my hands on her shoulder blades. Must pause. Let my swollen perpendicular die at the bottom of these stairs. So randy in the countryside. And by my watch it's time for tea.

From a soft green velvet sofa chair Miss Fitzdare's father stood up and smiled. Putting out his biggish hand to softly shake mine. His reddish hair, and neat tweed coat. Grey flannel trousers pointing out over thick brown well repaired shoes. A tie with twin white stripes. And freckles on his tan hands. Shorter than Fitzdare. Of a kindly saddish fleshy face. A gold watch chain across his waistcoat. Takes out a great round clock. We all want to know the time.

"Should be tea any moment now. Did you have a pleasant trip."

"Yes thank you."

"Do you like our sad green countryside."

"Yes, it's very beautiful."

"Things look good this time of year. Not so pleasant in the winter. You could have come via Dundalk on the train, a long but rewarding journey. Anyway you got here and I must apologise for my daughter bringing you in the back door."

"That's alright."

"She doesn't mean to be rude. Boodles scolds her the way she plods round the house in gum boots. Kicking off the mud. Not so funny if one has to do the cleaning. How is dear old Trinity."

"Fine."

"I lived up top there in Number Five, overlooking the Bank of Ireland. Used to be the old parliament. And so did my father and grandfather. When the horse cabs went bumping over the cobbles in College Green. Had to rough it then. Suppose things have changed."

"No sir, they haven't."

"Ah well a lot of other things have. Nothing stands still these days. You young people like to rush things along. Natural enough. Get these old stogies out of the way. Do you play billiards."

"Not quite sir.' "Well perhaps you'd like to have a try. I'm sure Elizabeth has a lot of things for you to do. But when one is so far away from the bustle it's hard to get anyone to come over of an evening. People hate to stir. Do you shoot."

"Well not really."

"Ha ha, you mustn't get alarmed. I know how it feels when sporty people start their subtle examinations. But you do look very fit for the field. That's always nine tenths the battle. It's all mostly for the fresh air. Elizabeth's out back there. She has a steeplechaser with a lame hoof. Jumping a bit of wretched wire. Rather a worry for her poor girl. She very much loves and lives for her horses. And her pappy foots the bill. Never mind. It gets up some good mushrooms in the fields. Here's tea. Boodles, port tonight, please. Ah lots of Mary's scones I see. And her gooseberry jam. Thank you."

"Very good sir."

"Mr. B here is with us. At Trinity with Elizabeth."

"Welcome sir."

"Thank you."

"Boodles tell Elizabeth in the yard we're waiting. Just give her a shout."

Fitzdare came through the great wide door, wiping her hands across her tweed skirt. Neat little laced walking shoes on her feet. She smiles at us both and sits on the thick woolly rug before the hearth. Her face makes purring laughter float through me. Curling back her legs under her bottom. Never without her string of pearls. To watch her eat. And sip tea, cup and saucer neatly in hand. Put gooseberry jam between her lips. And chew. Where I would go and taste it there. Just to be that jam. Between her radiant teeth. My legs crossed here on the soft cushions of this chair. In the warmth of eiderdown. A whole moment beyond belief. A daughter and her father. Out the wide windows the blossoms and blooms and over the velvet grass to the haunted dark vines weaving up through the trees. Whither goest that Beefy who said I should marry her. Take her as a wife. Climb up on your mare dear boy. Spend these splendid years ahead. Cantering over the table lands. Where westward all the dark hills lie out upon the blue. And sun goldened bracken between the boggy sharp pointed clumps of grass. How can I ever say, just to squeak out the words. I want to marry you. Take you as a beautiful wife as you will take me with all my hopeless sins. Caught in Donnybrook gardens. Trapped in college rooms. Watching helpless during turmoils crushing a landlady's false teeth. Another throbbing painful erection now. Untrained to keep its place. Gets up to antics in the country. All that green. As Uncle Edouard said a great vintage my boy you will feel between the legs. O God Fitzdare. Your knees. The muscle rising in your calf. You prostrate me. You do. All your black and flowing Celtic hair.

The rooster cries. The sun shone on the purple hills just as she said it would in the morning. And last night we dined in candle light in a great long columned room. With high arched cathedral ceilings. Fitzdare in a long blue flowing dress. Diamonds sparkling on her bosom. I struggled with my black bow tie. Pounding my fist blue on the dressing table. Lost my studs and blackened my cuff. When desperately I wanted to look so nice. Saw all her stables. Her thin leathery faced jodhpured trainer. The boy brushing down the sleek sides of Dingle. And jumping like a cat as a hoof slammed out and splintered the stall. In my sudden fear I shied back and nearly ran. And again gathering up a sporting bravery I tip toed close. To this strange dark stallion with his red glinting eyes. Weaving his head back and forth beyond the bars. And nibbling with his lips and teeth at Fitzdare's hand as I nearly reached up to pull her arm away. And saw this stallion's organ from where I stood grow huge and stiffen long under his belly and my God so did mine and I trembled faint hearted that she might ever see and know the saucy racy thing happening there. And then to whisper a little prayer, please Miss Fitz- dare don't tomorrow ask me to get up on a horse. With visions through the night of those hooves smashing down the great front door. And comes that Dingle pounding up the marble stairs and galloping wildly along the hall to break not through my door but come smashing out and down the whole wall of the room which fell in on me. And so encouraged, all the other horses came too. The whole giant pounding steaming lot of them. Pouring out across the rugs, hooves sliding on the floors. I woke shouting with my fists knotted and held high, grabbing at the halters and reins lashing everywhere. Saying they're coming they're coming right through the wall. Crashing out the stones. Making a storm on this moonlit night. With the heavens passing fast. And there standing over me. A lantern held in his hand. In tasseled night cap and long flowing gown, was Boodle. I said please where am I, turn on the light and he said I'm sorry the electricity is off for the night. And I remembered now. Flying in a plane through the clouds to come here and visit with Fitzdare. Neatly packed and spruce with my gladstone bag. And I said I'm afraid I had a nightmare. Horses came pounding through there out of that wall. And Boodles who slept in a room above said, here, this will help you sleep. I bolted back a whisky. And hoarsely said goodnight, wrapped tight in the blue silk warmth of my pyjamas and head buried in pillows, neck tucked up safely in linen sheet. To see the dawn at the window and thank God that now it's morning. Awake at cock crow. Hear footsteps pass down the hall. Soft rug on my bare feet. And slap water on my face. Look out a window, see if the world is still here just as it was last night. I walk down the stairs, and across the great hall. Lift up the latches. Pull back the heavy door. The air smells young and free. Blanket of sparkling dew out across the grass. And there. Caught in the morning sun. She goes. Galloping. Her hair flying from her head as Dingle's flows out from his mane. A gleaming black body rippling of muscle. Great long legs stretching out on the emerald turf. Please Elizabeth. Please Fitzdare. I feel for the time being a nervous wreck.

Balthazar B stepped across the gravel and up on the grass. Fitzdare gone now behind the trees and hear the hooves pounding as she turns and comes back racing along the lake. Crouching forward her head turned a little aside. Clods of earth thrown in the air. Closer and closer. The sound bigger and bigger coming up under me. As she reins up to the wall. Walk to her across this croquet lawn. And not show any fear. Nor run outright if she comes up close. Feel so utterly wrong now in my plus twos. Just a sham shy of beasts. With the world so fresh and sunny. Eight o'clock on this morn.

Miss Fitzdare her back straight and face asmile. A flowing pink bandana at her neck, black jacket, boots and hunting hat. See Dingle still charging across my room last night leading all the other quadrupeds. Scattering my cuff links. Sending me clutching up the wall. As he moves close upon me now. This seventeen hands of horse. Towering living pedestal for Fitzdare.

"My you're up already."

"Yes."

"Will you come a ride."

"Well really I'd rather just watch you. The splendid speed."

"Dingle's superbly trim. He's in excellent form. Aren't you Dingle, in excellent form. Specially when the going's firm. You big rascal. Say good morning to Balthazar.' "O no, he needn't do that."

"O you mustn't run. Dingle won't hurt you."

"O my God, hold him back Miss Fitzdare."

"O you awful man calling me Miss Fitzdare."

"I'm just a little shy of horses this morning. Elizabeth."

"Please, Lizzie."

"Lizzie."

"I don't really like the name. But at least it's friendly. Isn't that so Dingle. You wouldn't hurt Balthazar down there now would you. No you wouldn't. He lashes out now and again when he gets nerves. You just mustn't get in close behind him. And he only makes believe he bites."

"I see."

"Let's saddle you up a horse. Have you had breakfast."

"Not yet."

"Come on then. I have a good old hunter. We'll both have roaring appetites.' "I'm not really a riding man. Perhaps I should sit this one out. Here on the wall.' "Daisy's so mild she'll pick you up when you fall off."

"Well that would be awfully nice. Of Daisy. But."

"Yes come on. I'll take you up on the hills and then we'll have a marvellous breakfast."

Balthazar B walked back across the lawns by the gleaming windows of the house. In there we dined last night. Right in that noble room. Fitzdare's father poured out the port. All dark and splendid. Flowing down the crystal. An eternal sweetness buried deep in the somber ruby red. Under the antlers high up round the walls in the billiard room. Miss Fitzdare gave out with her purring laughter. As I tried so desperately to carom the balls. Giving great attention to chalking my cue. Meaning watch out for my next shot chaps. Send these spheres of elephant tusks dancing a rumba along the cushions. With full masse. But at last to be left deliberating lengthily. Lip pursing and the lot. And all to no avail. As both Fitzdares were gracious and each of unnerving calibre. Reach then for my glass and triumph at quaffing port.

A grey haired ancient groom helped Balthazar B into the saddle. Leading him by the bridle past the stable door. Ah you're right now sir, ready for the St. Leger. With droopy walk and two hanging heads, horse and man crossed out from the courtyard and clip clopped down the farm road and left through an opening into the fields. Fitzdare waiting there. Laughing gay encouragement and greeting. To lead them along a cypress avenue and steeply up a rocky path from these bottom fields climbing to the table land. This great wide animal beneath me. Female. A wafting breeze could bring a signal to a male. O my Lord, Dingle may try and jump her. Bite my ass right out of the saddle. Like last night. I wouldn't stand a chance.

Fitzdare racing ahead into the morning sunlight. Soft summer breeze blowing across the hills. And up at last now to see the great arching strides of Dingle stretching over the hard packed grass. Rising up like a great invincible ghost over walls without a change of stride. As I dismounted to go through the gates. Pulling and tugging to get back up on Daisy again. Until she leaned suddenly down to gobble up some succulent herb and I slid forward and spun clinging round her neck to land spreadeagled on the moist ground.

The curlews whistling and kestrels hovering against the wind. As I came walking back. To sit with her at the open breakfast room windows, a bow front jutting out in the rays of sun. A great painting along the wall "Coming Together Of The Meet By The Shores Of The Lough.' Spotted leaping hounds and red coated gentlemen on long bodied horses. The sideboard of hot plates and silverware. Sausages, tomatoes, bacon and butters. Hen's eggs and gull's eggs, syrups and creams. Toast and urns of steaming tea and coffee. With most memorable and delectable of all. Gooseberry jam.

"I thought you did awfully well, I really did. A lot of people are shy of horses. I shouldn't have been mean and made you ride."

"Going up the hill was fine. But I got used to leaning forward so that when she leaned forward to eat the grass it turned awkward."

And we went off through the mornings and wandered along the lake. Strolling past a field of mares and foals. Another of milk cows. She was so good to me. Not to ask that I should ride again. We watched a blackbird wiping its orange beak on a green bronzed apple branch. All these avian creatures looking so proud sitting in the trees. And I said that really and most honestly I would tell the truth that I was a picnic man. To proceed so bravely now. With this wicker basket of picnic things. Build Fitzdare a fire. Pass her chunks of cucumber or biscuits sweet with chocolate specks. I could be a cave man too if only a cave could be found somewhere nice.

"Balthazar."

"What."

"OI just wanted to say your name."

"O."

"I like it. And also just today you know Fm so happy that you're here. Took all my courage to ask you to come. I wanted you to meet my father. He's nice isn't he."

"Yes. He's very nice."

"A lonely man. I don't think he's ever got over losing my mother. And it's so many years ago. I had a little brother too. He was drowned with his nannie in a boat out on the lough. Just a few yards from shore. Daddy has his two spinster sisters who come to visit. They spend nearly all their time weaving and making jam. The gooseberry you like. My skirt's their cloth. Daddy should have married again. I sometimes wish he did. At twelve one still needs a mother. Some nice woman. He has friends who come to shoot. But he's lost interest now. I suppose that this, this whole place will have to go. The ruined castle there on the little island. The land reeks with history. I often think what sorrows passed here. Long before one's own."

Gulls wheeling by under the greying heavens. And the far away moaning of a cow. The distant web of stone walls making little fields on the hill sides dotted with specks of sheep. The mountaintops purple. And east the sky a rusty tint. As Balthazar B stood, a hogskin gloved hand holding tightly the picnic basket and turning to see two blue eyes made bluer by the sky. The splendid laughing voice.

"O gosh come on, I'll race you to that dead tree."

Miss Fitzdare ran. In her strange and horsey way. Feet flying out to her sides. The thick green tweed she wore with all the tiny little bits of colour. The long coat belted round the middle with its big square pleated pockets. A golden scarf at her throat and her hair flying free. We stopped by a little stretch of sand by the lough shore. And I went finding stones and built a fireplace while Fitzdare gathered sticks and brush. I said watch it will only take me one match. And it took eighteen. To start the flames. She lay along her side in the thick clumps of grass contemplating me. As I enacted so urgently one little catastrophe after another. Till finally I managed a stone slab bridged over the flames and put the sausages roasting there. She smiled and was pleased.

"They're really cooking aren't they. I think you're wonderful."

The tiny kettle placed to boil. A pot of tea was served. Light yellow little cups and saucers. Stirred with silver spoons. We were covered in great linen napkins, swallowing down slices of quince and orange chunks of Leicester cheese. Patches of light in the southern sky. Westwards there must sink a redless sun. And I remembered a strange moment which seems so long ago. In the chemistry laboratory. Fitzdare working at a titration. Turning the glass stirrer in her solution. As she does now the spoon in her tea. And I watched spellbound as she took a spatulate of sulfur and melted it on an iron ladle over her bunsen flame. While I stood blank minded and bemused with my own haphazard group of substances, staring at her beauty and I nearly died when I thought she glanced and winked at me.

The afternoon passing away. Adrift. As the tiny tints of darknesses push west out of the east. We sit on these boggy bunches of grass. With the warm mellow taste of tea. Chewing chunks of cucumber and these brown little spicy meats. Moved back from the fire's exploding stones in the heat. Watching the fading glow. Two great black ravens. Feather fingers of their wings squawking as they squeezed down against the air and passed overhead. To dive and sideslip over the water and disappear into a meadow ringed with trees. Their low deep throated calls. And Miss Fitzdare lies staring at me as my eyes turn to hers.

"Balthazar."

"Yes."

"Would you marry me."

She sits propped up on her elbows near enough to touch her hand. And smells all heathery and milky fresh. As I smell of smoke and burning sausage fat. Daisy flowers peeking white and yellow from the grass. I race a thousand miles away. Over oceans and up through glaciered valleys sliding on the ice, shouting out questions against the snowy mountains and cold blue sky. Give me back an answer. From all the centuries of thinking. And a voice whispers, my dear man the world was never different and all hearts love the same. And now I can't get my mouth to speak.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you that. I guess it's taken you very much by surprise. And I suppose there's someone else in your life."

"No. There isn't anyone else."

"Please. I didn't mean to say what I did, I just blurted it out, I don't know why. I was saying it before I knew what I was saying. And I don't mean to pry."

"And you want to take it back."

"No not really I don't."

A blade of grass squashing green, rubbed back and forth between Fitzdare's fingers. Little splashing waves falling against the shore. To come very close to her. Put my arm out under her shoulders. For the first time. Waited all these months. I kiss her. Lips stretched hard across her teeth. Her hesitating hand on the back of my neck. My nose goes buried under her hair. Nudging against a soft tender lobe of ear with nothing I can say. Unbuckle her belt, open her coat, four horn buttons undone and feel her breasts under lamb's wool. Nipples hardening there. The muscles of her arms go soft. And now her mouth under my lips. Opens tasting sweet. Despite the scandal which raged through college. Would you marry me she said. Under a deep deep blue above. Where stars come out amany across a great hushed canopy. When wisps of wind veer in off the lough. Be a little family here. Away from all the rest of the world. Singled out and now embrace this strange Fitzdare. Far from the grasping hands of the ruffian. Who could threaten me with bloody noses and black eyes. And now she will marry me. Both of us so lonely to say come please. Just the one of you to be with the one of me. Not through duty or because you must. But come because there is a breeze sprinkled with butterflies. And something in your heart says something to mine that neither can hear. But we know we must. We must. Stay close together. While cattle go mooing by. O God Fitzdare. My pole is shivering stiff between my legs. And my breath won't stay still. How can I tell you now. O God as the sperm spurts down my leg. A pearly liquid my Bella once held in her hand. And sown in her made a son. Wrap me tightly please as I hold you and softly cry. To tell you this. Love may be all the things you never know. As who sits beneath those slanting beams of sun. With little hammers under the rainbows counting crocks of gold. That's why I softly cry. And tell you. I have a son. I've not been married but I want you to know. It was with a woman when I was very young. And will it mean you don't want me now. And her arms squeezed me tight. She said. Nothing you say could make a difference but how sad for you. How very very sad. That it makes me cry too. Strange anyone would ever think you fast. And I know you're not. In spite of all the stories one can't help hearing at college. I want to say something to you now. That I'm happy you told me this. And I only want to hold you. And say your name. Balthazar. A fish jumped and splashed out on the silvered water. In all the silence around us here. Lying tightly held in each other's arms. The fire glows out its last heat. A curlew goes high whistling from its long curved beak. Over evening deeps. Sleeping. A little boy. Some little fellow. His heart a brother's heart. Gone away too.

Where

Flowers

Live.